The Weight of Change
Draco Malfoy sat at his usual spot in the library, the familiar smell of parchment and old books grounding him as he pored over a text on advanced charms. His quill scratched against the parchment as he made notes, though his focus wavered more than he cared to admit.
“Draco,” came a low, accented voice, pulling him from his thoughts.
He looked up to see Antonin Varga, the tall Durmstrang boy who had quickly become a regular presence in his life since the school year began. Antonin was flanked by his younger cousin, Petar, whose wide eyes darted around the library as if expecting someone to jump out and reprimand them for speaking too loudly.
“Varga,” Draco said, inclining his head. “You’re late.”
Antonin shrugged, his imposing shoulders lifting with an air of casual confidence. “I had to settle a dispute among my peers. Some of them are...less eager to adapt to Hogwarts’ ways.”
Draco gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Sit, then. Let’s not waste more time.”
Antonin dropped into the chair with a grace that belied his size, while Petar hesitated before perching on the edge of a nearby seat. Draco glanced at the younger boy, who was clutching a rolled-up piece of parchment like it was a lifeline.
“Do you have your essay, Petar?” Draco asked, his tone softer than usual.
Petar nodded quickly, unrolling the parchment to reveal neatly written lines in Bulgarian. “I wrote it as you said, but I’m not sure if the phrasing is right.”
Draco held out his hand, and Petar passed the essay to him with a nervous glance. As Draco scanned the text, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy. Petar reminded him a little of himself during his first year at Hogwarts—eager to please but weighed down by expectations he hadn’t asked for.
“It’s a good start,” Draco said after a moment, sliding the parchment back to him. “You’ve got the structure right, but your transitions need work. I’ll mark a few examples after we’re done here.”
“Thank you,” Petar said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Antonin smirked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You have the patience of a saint, Malfoy. I never would have guessed.”
Draco rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t mistake patience for necessity, Varga. If Petar fails his classes, McGonagall will have my head. Apparently, I’m your unofficial mentor.”
Antonin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that drew a disapproving glare from Madam Pince across the library. “You’re better at it than you think. Petar adores you, and even Sofiya listens when you speak.”
“Sofiya listens because she enjoys debating,” Draco said dryly. “And because she’s convinced I’ll eventually say something she can use against me.”
Antonin’s smirk widened. “True. She’s probably plotting as we speak.”
Sofiya Markova was the third Durmstrang student Draco had found himself entangled with this term. Unlike Antonin, who was steady and pragmatic, or Petar, who was shy and studious, Sofiya was sharp-tongued and fiercely independent. She often argued with Draco during their study sessions, but he suspected she respected him more than she let on.
“Speaking of Sofiya,” Antonin said, leaning forward, “she’s been asking about that potion you mentioned last week. The one for enhancing focus. She’s been struggling with the Transfiguration curriculum here.”
Draco frowned. “I’ll brew it, but tell her not to rely on shortcuts. If she doesn’t master the fundamentals, a potion won’t help her in the long run.”
“I’ll pass along the message,” Antonin said, though his tone suggested he didn’t think Sofiya would listen.
Draco sighed, rubbing his temple. The Durmstrang students had proven to be both a challenge and a distraction. When McGonagall first assigned him to assist them, he’d thought it was some sort of punishment. But as the weeks went on, he realized she’d done it because she trusted him—a realization that left him both baffled and oddly gratified.
“You’re brooding again,” Antonin said, breaking the silence.
Draco shot him a glare. “I don’t brood.”
Antonin raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “If you say so. But something’s clearly on your mind. Care to share?”
Draco hesitated. He wasn’t in the habit of confiding in anyone, least of all a Durmstrang student he’d only known for a few months. But Antonin had a way of asking questions that made it difficult to deflect.
“It’s nothing,” Draco said finally. “Just a run-in with Potter.”
Antonin’s expression darkened slightly. “He’s been bothering you?”
“Not exactly,” Draco said, choosing his words carefully. “He’s...curious, for lack of a better term. Keeps asking questions about why I’m helping you lot.”
Antonin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And what did you tell him?”
Draco smirked faintly. “That it’s none of his business.”
Antonin chuckled again, though his amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Potter’s reputation precedes him, even at Durmstrang. Some of my peers see him as a hero, but others think he’s arrogant—always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. While he agreed with the latter sentiment on some level, he couldn’t deny that Potter’s curiosity had shaken him more than he cared to admit.
“He’s not as insufferable as he used to be,” Draco said eventually. “But he’s still Potter. Still thinks he can save everyone.”
Antonin studied him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “Perhaps he sees you as someone who needs saving.”
Draco stiffened. “I don’t need saving.”
“Of course not,” Antonin said smoothly. “But Potter doesn’t know that, does he?”
Draco opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by the arrival of Sofiya, who swept into the library with her usual air of confidence. Her long black hair was pulled into a braid, and she carried a stack of books that looked far too heavy for her slight frame.
“Are you three gossiping again?” she asked, her voice laced with mock disdain.
“Not gossiping,” Antonin said, gesturing to Draco. “Malfoy was just telling me how much he admires Potter.”
Sofiya snorted, dropping her books onto the table with a thud. “Don’t be ridiculous. If Malfoy admires anyone, it’s himself.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Charming as always, Sofiya. Sit down before you break something.”
She smirked, taking a seat next to Antonin. “I heard Petar finished his essay. Is it terrible?”
“It’s fine,” Draco said, glancing at the younger boy, who looked mortified. “Better than some of the rubbish I’ve seen from the Gryffindors.”
Sofiya raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “High praise.”
Draco ignored her, turning his attention back to his notes. As the others settled into their work, he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection.
Helping the Durmstrang students had been more rewarding than he’d expected, but it was also exhausting. They looked to him for guidance in a way he wasn’t used to, and he often wondered if he was doing enough—or if he was even the right person to help them at all.
But then he thought of Petar’s shy gratitude, Antonin’s steady camaraderie, and even Sofiya’s begrudging respect. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe in the possibility of change—not just for them, but for himself as well.
Shaking off the thought, Draco returned to his notes. There was still work to be done.
The library fell into a familiar rhythm as Draco guided the Durmstrang students through their work. Sofiya was reviewing an essay for her Transfiguration class, muttering in Bulgarian under her breath every few minutes, while Antonin had his nose buried in a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. Petar worked diligently beside them, occasionally glancing at Draco for reassurance.
Draco found himself oddly at ease in their presence. It was strange, really, how quickly he’d grown accustomed to their company. He’d expected the Durmstrang students to be as cold and disdainful as the rumors suggested, but instead, they reminded him of himself and his classmates during the war—fractured, uncertain, and desperately trying to find their footing in a world that had shifted beneath their feet.
“Malfoy,” Sofiya said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
“What now?” Draco asked, not looking up from the potion recipe he was annotating.
“This essay,” she said, holding up the parchment. “McGonagall’s expectations are ridiculous. She expects us to know the intricacies of human-to-animal transfiguration when half of my peers at Durmstrang never mastered even the simplest spell.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “If you’re struggling, you could always ask McGonagall for help. She might terrify you less than I do.”
Sofiya scoffed. “I’d rather face a Hungarian Horntail than admit to a professor that I’m having difficulty.”
Draco smirked. “Pride’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”
She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t argue, instead returning to her essay with a muttered string of Bulgarian curses.
Antonin chuckled softly. “You have a talent for riling her up, Malfoy.”
“It’s not a talent; it’s a necessity,” Draco replied. “She learns best when she’s angry. Besides, it keeps her from falling asleep.”
Petar let out a quiet laugh, quickly hiding it behind his hand when Sofiya shot him a glare. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Despite her sharp tongue, Sofiya was surprisingly sensitive to perceived slights—a trait she would deny to her last breath.
As the evening wore on, the group began to wrap up their work. Draco set aside his quill, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.
“That’s enough for tonight,” he said, glancing at the clock on the far wall. “You three should head back to your common room before curfew.”
Petar nodded, already gathering his books, while Antonin and Sofiya exchanged a glance.
“We’ll leave in a moment,” Antonin said. “But there’s something we wanted to discuss with you first.”
Draco frowned, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”
Antonin hesitated, his usual confidence giving way to a rare moment of uncertainty. “Some of the other Durmstrang students...they’ve been talking about you.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of talking?”
Sofiya crossed her arms, her expression unusually serious. “The kind that isn’t flattering. They don’t understand why you’re helping us—or why we’re letting you.”
“Letting me?” Draco repeated, his tone sharp.
“You know how it is,” Antonin said, his voice low. “They’re suspicious of outsiders, especially ones with your...reputation.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. He should have expected this. The Durmstrang students had their own prejudices, their own assumptions about him based on nothing more than his surname and the stories that had followed him across the wizarding world.
“And what do you think?” Draco asked, his gaze flicking between Antonin and Sofiya. “Do you agree with them?”
“No,” Antonin said firmly. “You’ve proven yourself to us. But the others...they’re not so easily convinced.”
Sofiya nodded, her usual bravado replaced by something more subdued. “They think you’re only helping us to make yourself look good—to earn points with the Hogwarts professors or the Ministry.”
Draco exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care what they think. Let them talk.”
“You should care,” Sofiya said, her voice rising slightly. “Their opinion matters more than you realize. If they turn against you, it won’t just be you they’re targeting. It’ll be us, too.”
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. If the Durmstrang students decided he was a threat—or worse, a liability—it would make things difficult for everyone involved.
“What do you suggest, then?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“Come with us,” Antonin said. “Tomorrow night, there’s a gathering in the dungeons. Most of the Durmstrang students will be there, along with some of the Beauxbatons lot. It’s an informal thing—just talking, sharing stories, that sort of thing. If they see you there, see that you’re willing to engage with them on their terms, it might help.”
Draco hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to spend an evening in the dungeons, surrounded by people who likely hated him. But if it would smooth things over and make his life a little easier...
“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll go.”
Antonin and Sofiya exchanged a relieved glance, while Petar looked up from his books with wide eyes.
“Are you sure?” Petar asked hesitantly. “They can be...unkind.”
Draco smirked faintly. “I’ve faced worse than a few rude comments, Petar. Don’t worry about me.”
Petar didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded nonetheless.
“Good,” Antonin said, standing and gathering his things. “We’ll meet you outside the Slytherin common room at eight.”
“Don’t be late,” Sofiya added, her usual smirk returning. “We wouldn’t want you to miss all the fun.”
Draco rolled his eyes, watching as the three of them made their way toward the library doors. Once they were gone, he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts racing. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life—choices that had hurt others and tarnished his name. But this, helping the Durmstrang students, felt like something good, something worthwhile. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking a fine line. One misstep, and everything he’d worked for could come crashing down. But Draco Malfoy wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. With a determined sigh, he gathered his own books and left the library, his mind already racing with plans for the night ahead.
The next evening arrived far too quickly for Draco’s liking. He’d spent most of the day trying to convince himself that attending the Durmstrang gathering was a mistake, but the image of Antonin and Sofiya’s serious expressions had lingered in his mind. Their belief in him—a belief he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved—was enough to push him forward. By eight o’clock, Draco found himself in the dungeons, the air cooler than usual and tinged with the familiar scent of damp stone. Shadows danced across the walls as he made his way toward the old, disused classroom Antonin had mentioned. Antonin and Sofiya were already waiting for him outside the door. Antonin leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, while Sofiya tapped her foot impatiently.
“You’re late,” Sofiya said, though her tone was more teasing than accusatory.
“It’s two minutes past,” Draco replied, rolling his eyes. “Hardly worth mentioning.”
“Punctuality is a virtue,” Antonin said with a smirk, pushing off the wall. “But we’ll forgive you this time. Come on—the others are inside.”
Draco nodded, steeling himself as Antonin pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dimly lit, with torches mounted on the walls casting a warm, golden glow over the gathered students. Most of them were clustered in small groups, speaking in hushed tones or laughing quietly. The atmosphere was surprisingly relaxed, though Draco could feel the weight of curious—and occasionally suspicious—eyes on him as he stepped inside.
“Stick close to us,” Antonin murmured as they wove their way through the crowd. “It’ll be easier that way.”
“Easier for whom?” Draco muttered, though he followed Antonin’s lead without complaint.
Sofiya trailed behind them, her sharp gaze scanning the room as if daring anyone to say something untoward. Draco found her protectiveness both amusing and oddly reassuring.
They came to a stop near a group of older Durmstrang students, all of whom were speaking in rapid Bulgarian. Antonin greeted them with a nod, slipping seamlessly into their conversation. Draco remained quiet, observing the group as they exchanged jokes and stories.
One of the students, a tall boy with pale blond hair and a scar running down his left cheek, turned his attention to Draco.
“You’re the Hogwarts boy,” he said, his English heavily accented.
“Very observant,” Draco replied dryly. “And you are?”
The boy smirked. “Marek. I’ve heard a lot about you, Malfoy.”
“None of it good, I’m sure,” Draco said, his tone cool.
Marek chuckled, his pale eyes glinting with amusement. “You’d be correct. But Antonin and Sofiya seem to think you’re worth their time, so perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
“Perhaps,” Draco said, matching Marek’s smirk with one of his own.
Sofiya stepped forward then, placing herself between Draco and Marek with a pointed look. “Malfoy’s here to help, not to be interrogated. Play nice, Marek.”
Marek raised his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish, Sofiya.”
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead turning his attention to the rest of the room. He recognized a few faces from his classes—Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students who had been grouped with the Hogwarts eighth-years for various lessons—but most of them were strangers.
“It’s not as bad as you thought, is it?” Antonin asked, his voice low.
Draco glanced at him, noting the faint smile playing at the edges of his lips. “I’ve seen worse,” he admitted. “Though I’m not sure why you wanted me here.”
“Because they need to see that you’re not the enemy,” Antonin said simply. “And because you need to see that they’re not, either.”
Draco frowned, but before he could respond, the door opened again, and a group of Beauxbatons students entered. They were dressed impeccably, their robes pristine and their movements graceful. Draco recognized Gabrielle Delacour among them, her silver hair catching the light as she greeted a few Durmstrang students with an easy smile.
“They’re always so...polished,” Sofiya muttered, crossing her arms.
“Jealous?” Draco asked, earning himself a glare.
“Hardly,” she said. “I just don’t trust anyone who looks that perfect all the time.”
“Fair enough,” Draco said, suppressing a smirk.
As the evening wore on, Draco found himself relaxing—if only slightly. He spent most of the time observing, letting Antonin and Sofiya guide the conversations while he chimed in when necessary. To his surprise, a few of the students approached him with genuine curiosity, asking about Hogwarts or his experiences during the war. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was manageable. At one point, Petar appeared at his side, clutching a cup of pumpkin juice and looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Are you all right?” Draco asked, lowering his voice.
Petar nodded quickly, though his wide eyes betrayed his nerves. “I’m fine. It’s just...a lot of people.”
Draco placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Stick with me. They won’t bother you if you’re with me.”
Petar relaxed slightly, his shoulders losing some of their tension.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Draco gave him a small nod, his gaze flicking to Antonin, who was deep in conversation with Marek and another Durmstrang student. Antonin caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, silently asking if everything was all right. Draco gave a subtle nod in response. As the evening began to wind down, Draco found himself standing near the back of the room, a cup of pumpkin juice in hand. The initial tension had eased, and while he still felt out of place, he no longer felt like he was being scrutinized at every turn.
“Not bad for your first gathering,” Antonin said, joining him.
“I’m surprised no one threw me out,” Draco replied, his tone wry.
Antonin chuckled. “Give it time. They’ll come around.”
Draco wasn’t so sure, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.
By the time the gathering ended, Draco felt a strange mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been worth it. As he made his way back to the Slytherin common room, flanked by Antonin, Sofiya, and Petar, he couldn’t help but feel that, for the first time in a long while, he was on the path to something better.As the group made their way through the dimly lit corridors, the chatter from the gathering still echoed faintly in Draco’s ears. Antonin and Sofiya walked on either side of him, their strides confident, while Petar lagged a step behind, clutching his books to his chest like a shield.
Draco’s thoughts churned as they neared the Slytherin common room. The evening had been...unexpected. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it yet. On one hand, the gathering had gone better than he’d anticipated. Marek and some of the others had been less antagonistic than he feared, and a few had even seemed genuinely interested in his input. On the other hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking on thin ice.
“See?” Sofiya said, breaking the silence. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
Draco shot her a sidelong glance. “It was tolerable.”
Antonin snorted. “That’s high praise coming from you.”
“I’m not in the habit of lying,” Draco replied, his tone dry.
“You handled yourself well,” Antonin said, his voice lowering slightly. “Marek respects strength, and you didn’t back down when he tested you. That matters.”
Draco frowned, recalling the moment Marek had called him out in front of the group. It had been subtle—a pointed comment about Draco’s past alliances—but the undertone had been clear. Marek had wanted to see how Draco would respond.
“I wasn’t aware I was being tested,” Draco said, his voice sharp.
“Of course you were,” Sofiya said, as though it were obvious. “They don’t trust outsiders, Malfoy. You had to prove you weren’t a liability.”
“And did I?” Draco asked, arching a brow.
Antonin gave a small, approving nod. “You did. For now.”
The unspoken implication hung in the air: the trust of the Durmstrang students was not easily earned, and it could just as easily be lost. They reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the familiar stretch of stone wall a welcome sight. Sofiya stopped abruptly, turning to face Draco with a serious expression.
“Listen,” she said, her tone softer than usual. “I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s not easy for any of us. But tonight was a good first step.”
Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her sincerity. “You sound like you’re giving me a pep talk.”
Sofiya smirked, the moment of vulnerability passing. “Don’t get used to it.”
Antonin muttered the password, and the wall slid open to reveal the common room. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the green-and-silver furnishings. A few younger Slytherins sat scattered around the room, their heads bent over homework or quietly chatting.
Draco led the group inside, heading toward his usual corner by the fireplace. As he sank into one of the plush armchairs, Petar hesitated, hovering nearby.
“You don’t have to linger, Petar,” Draco said, not unkindly. “Go get some rest.”
Petar nodded quickly, mumbling a quiet “Goodnight” before scurrying off toward the dormitories.
Sofiya flopped onto the sofa opposite Draco, stretching out like a contented cat. “He’s a nervous one, isn’t he?”
“He’s been through a lot,” Draco said simply.
Antonin took a seat beside Sofiya, his expression thoughtful. “We all have. But Petar...it’s different for him. He’s younger, less sure of himself. You’ve noticed how the others treat him?”
Draco nodded. Petar had been the subject of more than a few whispered comments and sidelong glances at the gathering. His quiet demeanor and lack of confidence made him an easy target.
“They think he’s weak,” Sofiya said bluntly. “But he’s not. He just needs someone to believe in him.”
Draco hummed in agreement, his gaze fixed on the flames. He couldn’t help but see a bit of his younger self in Petar—the uncertainty, the desperate desire to prove himself.
“Are you planning to take him under your wing, Malfoy?” Sofiya teased, her smirk returning.
“Perhaps,” Draco said, surprising himself with the honesty of the admission.
Antonin’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “He could do worse for a mentor.”
Draco arched a brow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the crackling fire providing a soothing backdrop. Draco found his thoughts drifting back to the gathering, to Marek’s probing questions and the way Sofiya had come to his defense.
“You know,” Draco said after a moment, his voice quieter, “I didn’t expect any of this.”
Sofiya tilted her head, curious. “Any of what?”
“This...alliance, or whatever it is we’re building here,” Draco said, gesturing vaguely. “I thought it would be simpler. Help you with your studies, keep my head down, and move on. But now...”
“Now you’re part of something bigger,” Antonin finished, his tone matter-of-fact.
Draco sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Something like that.”
“You’re doing fine,” Sofiya said, her voice unusually gentle. “Better than fine, actually. You’ve already done more for us than most people would bother to.”
Draco glanced at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her expression. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.
“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice soft.
Sofiya waved a hand dismissively, though there was a faint hint of a smile on her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Antonin chuckled, rising from his seat. “We should all get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Sofiya groaned but didn’t argue, following Antonin toward the dormitories. Draco remained by the fire for a while longer, his thoughts churning. He hadn’t expected to find himself in this position—caught between two worlds, trying to bridge a gap he hadn’t even known existed. But as daunting as it was, he couldn’t deny that it felt...worthwhile. For the first time in a long time, Draco Malfoy felt like he was making a difference. And that, he decided, was enough to keep him going.
Draco woke early the next morning, still feeling the faint buzz of the previous night’s events. It was a strange sensation—not quite pride, but a sense of satisfaction that he hadn’t embarrassed himself in front of the Durmstrang students. The memory of Marek’s grudging respect and Sofiya’s rare compliment lingered in his mind as he prepared for the day.
By the time he entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the room was already alive with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation. Draco spotted Antonin and Sofiya at the far end of the Slytherin table, with Petar tucked between them like a cautious shadow. He started toward them but stopped abruptly when he noticed Harry Potter standing near the Gryffindor table, chatting animatedly with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. For a moment, Draco considered ignoring him and continuing on his way. But then Harry glanced up, and their eyes met.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice carrying over the noise of the hall.
Draco resisted the urge to sigh and turned to face him. “Potter,” he replied, his tone neutral.
Ron’s expression darkened, but Hermione shot him a warning look, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re up early,” Harry said, stepping closer.
“As are you,” Draco said, arching a brow. “Though I suppose it’s too much to hope that this is the beginning of a new and productive phase in your life.”
Harry rolled his eyes, though there was no real malice in his expression. “Funny. What were you up to last night?”
“None of your business,” Draco said smoothly.
“Right,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “Because skulking around the castle at all hours is perfectly normal behavior for you.”
Draco bristled but managed to keep his composure. “If you must know, I was spending time with some of the Durmstrang students. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, and Draco could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Durmstrang? What are you doing with them?”
Draco sighed, already regretting his decision to engage. “Believe it or not, Potter, I’m capable of forming alliances that don’t involve you or your little band of Gryffindor sycophants.”
“That’s not what I—” Harry began, but Hermione cut him off with a pointed look.
“Harry, leave it,” she said, her voice firm. “If Malfoy is working with the Durmstrang students, it’s probably for a good reason.”
“Thank you, Granger,” Draco said, inclining his head. “At least someone recognizes my ability to be useful.”
Ron muttered something under his breath, but Harry held up a hand to stop him.
“Fine,” Harry said, his tone grudging. “But if you’re up to something—”
“You’ll what, Potter?” Draco interrupted, his voice sharp. “Hex me? Report me to McGonagall? Spare me the hero act. I’m not interested in whatever conspiracy you’ve conjured up in that overactive imagination of yours.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione grabbed his arm and steered him back toward the Gryffindor table.
Draco exhaled slowly, turning back toward the Slytherin table. Antonin and Sofiya were watching him with matching smirks, while Petar looked thoroughly confused.
“Friends of yours?” Sofiya asked as Draco slid into the seat across from her.
“Hardly,” Draco muttered, reaching for a piece of toast.
“They seem to take an unusual interest in you,” Antonin said, his tone amused.
“They take an interest in everything,” Draco said, biting into his toast with more force than necessary.
Petar shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Draco and the Gryffindor table. “Is he always like that?”
“Who, Potter?” Draco asked. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Antonin chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “I can see why you dislike him. He’s insufferable.”
Draco hummed in agreement, though he couldn’t shake the lingering irritation from his encounter with Harry.
As breakfast continued, the conversation shifted to less frustrating topics. Antonin and Sofiya filled Draco in on the latest Durmstrang gossip, while Petar asked hesitant questions about Hogwarts’ upcoming Quidditch match. By the time they left the Great Hall, Draco felt more at ease. The morning sunlight filtered through the castle’s high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors as the group made their way toward the library. They had just rounded a corner when they nearly collided with Harry, who was walking briskly in the opposite direction.
“Potter,” Draco said, his tone clipped. “What an unpleasant surprise.”
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, his gaze flicking to Antonin and Sofiya. “Out for another secret meeting?”
Draco smirked, crossing his arms. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but no. I’m taking my friends to the library. Unlike some people, we actually care about our studies.”
Harry narrowed his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “Just...stay out of trouble, Malfoy.”
“Likewise,” Draco said, brushing past him.
As they continued down the corridor, Sofiya leaned in close. “You know, I think he likes you.”
Draco nearly tripped over his own feet. “What?”
“Potter,” she said, her smirk widening. “He wouldn’t bother with you if he didn’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, his voice tight.
Antonin chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “She has a point, you know. He seems awfully invested in whatever you’re doing.”
“Potter is invested in everything,” Draco snapped. “It’s his defining trait.”
Sofiya raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, though her knowing smile lingered as they entered the library. Draco shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He wasn’t about to let Harry bloody Potter distract him from what actually mattered. Not now. Not ever. Or so he told himself.